THE FOURTH WATCH (48 page)

"Yes, thank you, this is Bob Johnson, I'm an
agent and I met Mr. Paulson in New York a few months ago, and one
thing led to another and he asked me to call him if I had any
talent that might fit your, ah ... , needs, so if you could put me
through ... "

She paused for a moment. "Well, Mr., Johnson is
it?"

"Yes."

"Here's the thing, Mr. Paulson is pretty busy
right now ... "

Walter said, "Are you in films?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well you've got that sultry voice and all and,
you know, I was just thinking, have you done something?"

"Well that's .... "

"No, no," Walter said, "I'm not trying to
embarrass you or anything, I just...I mean, wow, that voice, have I
heard it before?"

"Well ... no ...I don't think so. I mean, no, I
did two pictures, but not that anyone would recognize ... at least
I hope not - if you know what I mean." She giggled a
little.

"Oh come on, it's a business, am I
right?"

"Yeah," she said, ''you know what, thanks for
that."

"Hey," Walter said. "Well, listen, sounds like
Sonny has got his plate full, so I'll just try him
again."

"I don't mean to put you off - Mr. Johnson is
it?"

"Bob."

"Mr. Paulson is going to Panama tomorrow. He's
like crazy busy right now and I..."

“No, no, no, don't worry about it. ..
Ms.?"

"Amy," she said, "well, not Ms. Amy, my first
name is Amy, it's Fine, well not fine-fine, I mean my last name is
Fine, so it's Amy Fine.

"Well that's fine then," Walter said, and they
laughed together.

"Listen, Mr. Johnson," Amy said, "Bob, I mean
... Mr. Paulson has an eleven thirty flight out of JFK tomorrow
morning. I'm putting his stuff together, so I know he'll be in here
at eightish. If you call, say - I don't know, eight-thirty-ish,
I'll get you through to him. I would get you through right now, I
just don't know where he's at."

''Not to worry," Walter told her, "no big deal.
Thanks for the heads up, I'll try to give him a shout if I can
...if not ... I'll catch him when he gets back, thanks, Amy, you
must have been something else in those two pictures."

She was giggling again when he hung
up.

Walter called Delta Airlines and
booked a 6:20 flight that night out of Logan. He hung up and called
the Holiday Inn at JFK in New York and booked a room for the night.
Then he went online and found the address for Paulson Productions
at 7th Ave. and West 28th Street. What one would call off,
off,
OFF
Broadway.

*****

WALTER EXPRESS CHECKED
out of his room the next morning at 6:00 AM and
took a cab to Rockerfeller Center. It was freezing outside and
still dark when the cabbie dropped him. The ice skating rink was
lit, and there were skaters turning and gliding in the lamp light,
their bodies arching and leaning, their skates shushing and
scratching on the ice, their breath smoking in the cold. Walter was
drawn into a busy greasy spoon on the corner by the smell of
biscuits and coffee and bacon coming out the door with the people.
The place was well lit, its windows fogged with steam. Walter could
hear grease hissing on the grill behind a long counter where two
cooks were busy pulling paper orders off spikes and putting them
together on big, hot, platters and calling out the names of the
waitresses that hustled between packed tables.

Walter sat down at the counter and ordered eggs
scrambled with cheese, corned beef hash, sausage, home fries, toast
and coffee. He ate slowly, quietly, scanning the headlines on the
front page of a house copy of the New York Times. Then he ordered
another coffee in a big paper cup, paid his tab and walked back
outside and made his way across the park to the ice
rink.

It was December sixth, cloudless and black.
Kato had been down a couple of months now, and there was nothing
happening, but Walter could feel his pulse racing. He was onto
something. He took a sip of his coffee and watched the skaters
circling. A quartering moon that was so white it was hard to look
at, hung in the air above them. A little bit of light was leeching
into the darkness on the horizon. Walter watched it spread sideways
along the earth's rim and begin to climb. It was hauntingly
beautiful. He felt alone in the universe and wished he had someone
to share the moment with.

He took off his gloves and pulled out his
cigarettes and shook one loose from the pack. He lit it and put his
gloves back on and smoked it steadily down watching the moon soften
in the night sky. Then, suddenly, the Christmas Tree in the park
lit, its lights soaring above the skaters who all stopped and said
"Oh" together, and Walter heard it all around him and realized
suddenly that he was surrounded by individual people just like him
who had gathered here, as they probably did every morning during
the Christmas Season to watch the tree come on, to start the day
with a smile and a chance. Walter looked at the tree for just
another moment, blazing with lights, the Angel at its apex life
size, its heavy branches dusted with snow, its unspoken message, a
promise. He took a deep breath and looked at his watch. 7:05. Time
to Rock & Roll.

*****

IN THE WARMTH
of the cab on the way to Paulson Productions Walter pulled a
leather identification wallet out of the inside pocket of his
overcoat and flipped it open. He was going with the good stuff. One
side held a gold Homicide Detective's Shield, Worcester PD, and the
otherside, the actual ID of Detective Mark Poole, with Walter's
picture where Poole's used to be. Poole looked a little like
Walter, so if Paulson called the station, in an abundance of
caution, Walter might pass a surface description of his appearance.
That was, of course, unless Poole himself answered the phone at the
Homicide desk.

7th Ave., and West 28th is West of Broadway, in
the general vicinity of Penn Station.

Paulson Productions was located in a five story
fire trap in a neighborhood full of fire traps. Half of them
appeared to be abandoned. It was 7:40 when Walter got himself
seated with a newspaper and a cup of coffee at a lunch counter
inside a neighborhood pharmacy next door. At 8:10 he walked across
the street, up four stairs and into an empty lobby. A wall
directory indicated that Paulson Productions was on the third
floor. Walter took a tired elevator up. He was surprised when the
doors opened on a spacious area, nicely decorated and furnished,
with a handsomely dressed, sinnfully beautiful receptionist seated
at a desk under the words 'Paulson Productions, Inc.'. There were
plants arranged on a half wall that separated the reception area
from the offices beyond, and imbedded in it, was a large aquarium
filled with red and gold fish, all of the same species. The
receptionist smiled as Walter approached. She had long, straight
hair, so blond it was almost white. Her face was a perfect oval,
her eyes the green-yellow of a tiger's. Her nose was thin and
straight, perfectly proportioned, her mouth wide, full, a shade
darker than her evenly tanned skin.

"Welcome to Paulson Productions," she said.
"Can I help you?"

Walter recognized her voice. It didn't go with
the rest of the package. He opened his badge holder and held it out
for her to see. "Yes, my name is Mark Poole, I'm a Homicide
Detective from Worcester, Massachusetts, and I need to speak to Mr.
Paulson."

She looked at him both nervously and
quizzically. "Well, I. .. ah ... I'm not sure ... "

Walter interrupted her. "Listen, I'm very
sorry, Amy, I think you recognize my voice ... like I recognize
yours. I lied to you yesterday on the phone, when I told you I was
an agent named Bob Johnson. I know he's here and it's important
that I talk to him. Either tell him to come out or show me to his
office." He stared at her, hoping it was his hard guy look, and not
his 'I'm afraid of beautiful women' look.

She hesitated for just a second, looking at
Walter as if he were an insect standing on it's hind legs and
squeaking at her. Then she picked up the phone and turned her back
to him to speak into it.

Walter's eyes never left her ass as he followed
her down the hall to the back of the suite.

Paulson was standing behind a cluttered desk,
packing a briefcase. He didn't look like a smut producer. He was
medium height, with trimmed salt and pepper hair neatly combed and
sprayed into place. He wore a well cut, navy blue suit with a faint
red pin-stripe in it. His tie was loose at the neck, had a Windsor
knot in it, and was red, with a light blue weave. He had reading
glasses on the end of his nose as he packed, and looked up over
them as the receptionist opened the door and introduced Detective
Poole.

Paulson stripped off the glasses and came
around the desk extending his hand."Detective, I'm Sonny Paulson,"
he said.

Walter didn't think he looked like a
'Sonny'.

The office was large and clean, and like the
reception area, color coordinated and elegantly
furnished.

Walter looked around it. "Nice place you got
here, Mr. Paulson."

"Call me Sonny," he said. "What can I do for
you, Detective. Sorry to rush to the point, but I'm getting ready
for a business trip and I... "

"Yeah?" Walter said, "Where you
goin'?"

"Oh ... well, Panama, actually."

"No kiddin'? Is that where you guys import the
pussy from? I always thought it was like Mexico or something. How
'bout that canal?"

"Well ... no, I... "

"You're right," Walter told him, "none of my
business. Look, I don't want to hold you up, so I'll just get right
to it. You stay in touch with the talent?"

Paulson frowned at him. "Excuse me?"

"The women and men you use in your films, do
you stay in touch with them, by phone or any other method of
correspondence?"

"I guess I don't know how to answer that,"
Paulson said. "I have no personal relationship with any of the
actors that appear in our films, we, Paulson Productions, are
always in contact with any number of them through their
agencies."

"So if we were to talk about a particular actor
here today, you would not be reporting this conversation to anyone,
or their agency, after I left, would you?"

Now Paulson looked a little nervous and a
little angry. "Detective," he said, "if I were to discuss anyone
with you today, and you asked me not to mention it, and if I agreed
not to mention it, then I would not."

"What time's your flight?" Walter asked
him.

Paulson was uncomfortable now, he had a little
twitch in his cheek. "Um ... 12:20 ... out of ... listen, what's
this all about. Do I need a lawyer?"

"You like lawyers do you, Mr.
Paulson?"

"Well they ... "

"Yeah, me either. But there is this one lawyer
that I do like, and he was shot and he's in a coma and the woman he
was with was killed. I'm investigating a homicide here. I'm sure
you get sued a lot in the porn business, so you probably have all
kinds of lawyers around, but this is a criminal matter, a murder,
and we have a person of interest in our investigation whose
identity we can't confirm. We know what she is presently calling
herself, and we know she appeared in at least two of your films,
but we have not yet been able to find her real name and therefore,
cannot include her, or exclude her, as a suspect, because we cannot
do an effective background check on her. I am being very forthright
with you here, and telling you more about police investigation
procedures than I should, because I'm asking for your cooperation
in an out of state homicide investigation. I have no reason to
believe that you are at all involved in this matter, or that I will
have any further contact with you after today if you cooperate, in
fact this can all be over pretty quick and I'll be out of your
hair. But if you want to call a lawyer, then go ahead, but then
I'll have to call the NYPD and advise them of my presence, and
formally request their assistance, and like that. In that situation
you, of course, are still not implicated but, I don't like your
chances of making that 12:20 flight. So do we go on, or do you call
a lawyer?"

Paulson looked at Walter with no expression on
his face, but Walter could tell he was turning it all over in his
mind. Walter of course was bluffing, and hoped he was pulling it
off. Paulson said, "Can I see your identification,
Detective?"

"Of course," Walter said, opening the badge
wallet and handing it to Paulson.

Paulson made a show of studying it for a minute
and then handed it back. "And how about you, Detective? If I were
to help you, could I rely on your discretion? If this person of
interest turned out to be involved, I wouldn't want it known that I
was involved in your investigation. You see, very few of our
artists look upon what they do here as their ... well ... life's
work, if you know what I mean. They expect to leave it all behind
them someday. They rely on the anonymity that comes from silly
stage names. If it were to become known that I would violate that
trust, allow anyone to come along and pierce the veil between the
past and the present. Well, I could find myself ... "